Forged In Fury
by Wgreen
Summary: Before the rise of Dragons and the return of Alduin there was a Nord man haunted by nightmares and a Voice that commanded he do the unthinkable. Wolfram Bear-Arm would one day discover he was Dragonborn but before that he was merely another mortal of Nirn, this is his story and how destiny led him to the chopping block of Helgen.


Forged In Fury

(I Do Not Own Elder Scrolls or Skyrim)

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Chapter One: Wolfram

Wolfram Bear-Arm sat near the fire with Meeko at his side. He held his dagger above the flame until it was red hot. With a grunt he slowly removed the bandages tied on his upper right leg. A Forsworn landed a sound arrow above the knee. Biting down on a strip of leather Wolfram placed the heated steel to the wound, cauterizing it. As his flesh smoked and seared he let out a hiss. His teeth grinding deep into the leather strip. After cauterizing the wound he quickly wrapped it with fresh bandages and put out the small fire.

He had barely survived the ambush. If not for Meeko ripping the throat from the initial attacker Wolfram would have died for sure. The attack happened during midday on the southern road from Dragon Bridge. The Forsworn had chased him for miles, deep into their territory. It was moments like these Wolfram wished he had enough Septims to purchase a horse. It would be a five days ride on horseback to get back and several more to Rorikstead. That was of course if he survived the night.

Currently he and Meeko were encamped a near waterfall and a low hanging rock formation. Off in the distance the Forsworn made their war cries. They hadn't found him yet but they were closing in. Wolfram risked much with the fire but his wound needed to be tended to. Shivering in the cold Meeko moved closer to his master. Wolfram rustled the mutt's head and muzzle, whispering.

"We're getting to old for this, boy." Meeko tilted his head slightly to the left and whimpered. Wolfram wasn't the only one who was injured. One of the savages had nicked Meeko's side with an axe. Thankfully the wound was small, nowhere near as bad as Wolfram's. It would heal on its own. He gave his dog one last pet before easing his back against the damp stone. To his right there was a nirnroot glowing dimly emitting its low chime. Closing his eyes Wolfram took in several small breaths. The air was crisp, clean. The earth's musty aroma mixed with the sharp overtone of the stream was refreshing. He could hear the splashing of the calm waterfall flowing, the howls of wolves in the distance and the heavy pitter patter of rain. It was an orchestra of nature that was more comforting than any of the Hold's bustling blistery streets. Those who didn't know Wolfram couldn't believe he found the wilds of the Reach more of a home than that of a city with high walls and guards. Yet Wolfram did…even during moments like this, near death with Reachmen on his heels blood drunk and eager.

He allowed himself a couple minutes of rest before sitting up. Wolfram needed a plan to get out of this alive. Stealth was never his strong suit he preferred solving his problems with steel, well at least problems like this…Wolfram didn't know much outside of combat. In social settings he was lacking and more than once he had been thrown into the Cidhna Mine for drunken brawling. Perhaps that was why he shunned society so much, they were too soft.

Fighting his way out of this situation was a novel idea but not practical. By his count there were at least ten of the Forsworn on his tail before he found this hideaway. That number had unquestionably doubled by now. Running was an option but that was surely death. So was continuing to hide here. Perhaps he could appeal to their humanity. The thought made Wolfram chuckle. A Forsworn showing mercy would be just as likely as the dragon god Akatosh coming down and kissing him. Savages.

"What do you think, boy? Run and die, hide and die or fight and die?" Wolfram quipped. Meeko paid his owner no mind, his eyes on the horizon while letting out a long low growl. Wolfram looked to the distance and saw why. Several of the Forsworn were closing in with weapons at the ready.

"Oh." Was All Wolfram said in response before drawing his steel sword and axe. Their leader, a briar heart charged forward wildly swinging his axes to and fro. Wolfram deflected the attack with his axe and riposted. Falling into an offensive stance Wolfram used the momentum of the Briar heart's attack to slam him into the nearby rock formation. A mixture of blood and teeth fell to the soft earth as Wolfram stabbed the Forsworn through his back, running him through. Wolfram's blade poked through the back and out his belly. With one smooth motion he kicked free the corpse with blood splattered upon his face.

Meeko kept close to his master, wrapped around the back of his leg. When another of the Forsworn advanced he leapt upward snapping his jaw wildly until he latched onto a forearm. The Reachman howled in pain as he desperately flailed about. A distinctive crunch echoed through the night as Wolfram's hound snapped bone. Reeling in pain the Forsworn dropped to his knees. With a quick spin Wolfram decapitated the screaming head.

The third Forsworn, a mage summoned fire to her fingertips, unleashing a torrent of flame that licked at Wolfram's body. A lifetime of hunting Forsworn had taught Wolfram harshly that mages were the most dangerous. As his skin began to bubble and boil he rolled toward the mage, beneath her outstretched arms. He slit her throat before she had a chance to scream. As her lifeless body fell Wolfram silently took count. That was four Briar hearts. The Jarl's pay would be doubled at this point. If he survived this he would be a very rich man.

Last of the assailants, an archer fumbled knocking an arrow. Just from her stance Wolfram could tell she had seen little combat. Once the arrow was set she let it loose. It went wide. In a sprint he closed the distance. The Forsworn tried to ready another arrow but dropped it with jittery hands. Wolfram could not see her face due to her deer skull head dress but accurately guessed it was one of fear. As soon as he was upon her she dropped her weapon. His mind hazy Wolfram readied to strike her down but found he couldn't. With a low sigh he harshly pulled her close and growled.

"Alert no one and run." With that he and Meeko melted in the night, rain pelting both of them. As he walked there was a tingle at the back of Wolfram's head. A familiar sting he continually tried to ignore. While he marched onward the Voice returned and it demanded as it always did,

" _Kill, Maim, Slaughter."_ Wolfram shook his head and quickened his pace. He was no monster. That archer was young probably no older than nineteen. He shook his head and looked to Meeko. His hound met his gaze, tilting his head. At times like these he was thankful for Meeko's company. As they marched onward Wolfram said quietly with a smile,

"She listened, boy…" Shortly afterward there was an all too familiar war cry from behind. The tingle returned as a maelstrom of needles. The Voice was now a thunderous miasma. _Kill Maim, Slaughter…_ Repeating again and again, like the pitter patter of rain. Meeko let out a low whine and nudged Wolfram's leg as if telling him to ignore it and run. As always he didn't listen. The Voice was all he could hear or focus on now. With a vicious roar Wolfram charged back toward the archer. He could see dark figures in the rain, her reinforcements. She saw his advance and again fumbled with an arrow. This time she was met with an axe to the middle of her face her lifeless body crumpling before Wolfram. Meeko bit at his master's heel pulling, tugging away from the coming battle but there was no stopping what was to come.

In a matter of moments four Ravagers stood before Wolfram. Hardened veterans of the Forsworn that duel wielded a mix of axes, swords or maces. No longer himself Wolfram sprinted toward the nearest. An axe dug deep into his shoulder as he tackled the first. Paying no mind to the wound Wolfram furiously swung both his axe and sword downward. With blood splattering his being another of the Ravagers impaled him in the back. Wolfram howled in pain as he stood with the sword buried deep into his upper shoulder. He spun on his heel with death in his eye. When he saw his assailant he swung both axe and sword to either side. The Forsworn blocked his axe but Wolfram's sword buried itself in between his ribcage. The third Ravager nearly decapitated Wolfram as he swung his axe. Just as it was about to connect Wolfram leaned to the side, regardless the axe hit a major vein. Blood poured like a fountain from Wolfram's neck. Yet he felt no pain, heard no rain or the voices of his attackers. The only thing that mattered to Wolfram was The Voice. _Kill! Maim! Slaughter! Kill! Maim! Slaughter!_ It screamed louder and louder with every swing of an axe, with every cut of a sword.

When he next awoke Wolfram was near a stream. He couldn't remember what had happened. Save that he fought for his life. Next he realized he was bandaged at the neck. He tried to move but found he couldn't. He heard someone approaching. Blurry eyed he could not make out who it was but recognized the voice.

"Rest easy, my friend, you will not die this day." A Khajiit in steel plate knelt near Wolfram. Removing the wraps quickly his savior patted Wolfram's neck with a strong smelling salve. It stung like a Chaurus bite, the pain knocking Wolfram unconscious. Twice more this happened until Wolfram was stable. It was night when he awoke. Still near the stream there was a fire crackling as if alive, dancing. To his right was Meeko curled as close as he could to Wolfram and in front of him was an old friend. Kharjo sat near the fire, tending to a roast on a spit lightly dusting it with fire salts and cinnamon from the smell of it. Wolfram wearily sat up rubbing the back of his head. As he came to his senses Wolfram realized he was bandaged not only at the neck but his back, chest and right arm. Before he could ask Kharjo said flatly.

"It was early in the morning when this one found you among many corpses. You were near death on the road to Rorikstead with three arrows in your back. Thankfully our caravan was there when it was. The Forsworn following you were not as fortunate." Wolfram never had memories of what had happened after the Voice took over only flashes of violence and bloodshed. As he grew older controlling the Voice had become easier but it still could take over in a moment's notice if he wasn't careful.

Once the roast was finished Kharjo sliced two healthy cuts one for himself and the other for Wolfram. The two ate in silence. As usual Khajro made the meat too spicy sending Wolfram into a coughing fit. By the Nine did it hurt to cough! Frantically grabbing his waterskin Wolfram chugged. All the while Kharjo chuckled smugly.

"Forgive my amusement, Wolfram but your hatred of spicy foods is always a spectacle for this one." Wolfram shot him a dark look and snapped hoarsely

"You'll be a spectacle in a minute…what does spectacle mean." Again Kharjo laughed, this time Wolfram begrudgingly joined in. With their meal finished Kharjo casually explained what spectacle meant. Wolfram nodded slowly, another new word learnt. He tried to move but Kharjo stopped him.

"You are still too weak, we rest until your wounds heal." Kharjo said as he filled the small pot with stream water, boiling it. Wolfram quickly asked

"What of your caravan?" Kharjo smiled revealing his sharp feline teeth and replied

"Safe in Rorikstead where they are peddling wares and making good coin." With that Wolfram laid back down and closed his eyes. He did not dream often but when he did it was of a village under attack. Screams echoed around in all directions as Wolfram aimlessly wandered in the carnage. Smoke billowed from the burning eaves of small wooden huts. A woman crawled in front of Wolfram bloody, begging in a language he couldn't understand. One of the attackers slowly made his approach with a hatchet at the ready. All the while her eyes locked on Wolfram. He always looked away but could never tune out the distinctive carving noise. In these dreams he reverted back to when he was a young child. Wolfram did not know this village, had never seen it in his adult life yet there was an odd familiarity to it. The dream would skip to him running as fast as he could deep in a lush forest. Heavy footsteps fell behind him. His pursuer was in all black with a sword drawn. His labored heavy breathing terrified Wolfram. He would scream, beg for it all to end and that was when he would awake in a cold sweat. Over the years he had found that they happened more frequently when the Voice had taken control.

Kharjo was asleep across from Wolfram. They had met long ago when Wolfram was young and ranging for Forsworn. Like before it was Kharjo who had saved him. He was forever thankful to the Khajiit warrior. To repay his debt Wolfram had hunted down a gang of bandits that had Kharjo's moon pendant. Kharjo then made a habit of touring the caravan to Markarth so they could share stories and mead. Kharjo's ears slowly perked up as if sensing Wolfram was awake. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes he looked to his old friend and remarked with a yawn.

"If the years have done anything for you, it has made your snoring worse. Gods praise any woman who could put up with that." Wolfram let out a hearty laugh which he quickly regretted, pain shooting through his ribs and neck. Once it subsided he replied smugly

"Gods praise any woman who can stand your cooking." Kharjo hissed lightly but ended up laughing all the same. Meeko lazily rubbed his head against Wolfram's leg. Two days had passed since Kharjo's timely rescue. The pain had lessened enough that Wolfram could at least help around the camp. Standing up he stoked the fire and splashed stream water on his face. Kharjo prepared fresh bandages and his healing salve.

Kharjo removed the old bandages piece by piece. Each a dark black from crusted blood, thankfully none had festered. Wolfram winced in pain as Kharjo gingerly patted each wound with a water soaked cloth followed by one drenched in Cyrodilic Brandy to disinfect. Wolfram quietly growled as the alcohol seeped into his wounds. Finally he rubbed in the orange healing salve and bandaged the wounds one by one. The salve reeked of overly powerful herbs and had the consistency of a fine jelly. Upon contact with Wolfram's wounds a cool tingling sensation shot through his body that lasted briefly. Once it he was done Kharjo commented listlessly,

"Those will scar and horribly. This one is thinking that you are becoming more wounds and scars than man, Wolfram. Perhaps it is time you retire from Forsworn ranging." The old Nord shook his head as he took a hearty bite from the left over roast. He saved a small chunk for Meeko and lazily tossed to his hound. Wolfram said with a mouthful of food,

"Its good money, keeps a roof over my head and out of Markarth when I don't want to be around others." Kharjo let out a long low hiss before carving the last cut of meat. Customary with their meet ups Kharjo uncapped his brandy and took a swig. They passed the bottle back and forth a number of times until Kharjo put the stopper back in. Wolfram rarely drank. He had learned early on that it numbed his mind and allowed the Voice easier control. On the rare occasion he did it was among what few friends he had. Kharjo kept close to the fire. His furred hands cupped near it for warmth. He looked again to Wolfram with something akin to pity and asked,

"My offer still stands you would be welcome among our caravan. It would be a much better life than this. Would you please reconsider, not only for your sake but my own?" Wolfram felt a prick of irritation gather in his gut. How many times would they have this conversation? He rubbed at the wound on his arm and muttered,

"Ahkari moved ahead, without you, as she always does when I am involved I hardly call that trust. " It was true Kharjo's expression and how he winced at Wolfram's words were proof enough. After gathering his thoughts Kharjo said sullenly,

"Wolfram, your hatred is consuming you. Your anger is destroying you! The Reach is no home for you! Whatever evils happened here let them die, _here_. If you continue this…this crusade against the Forsworn you will die." Wolfram took a generous drink from his waterskin and replied coldly,

"We all die, some faster than others." With a defeated shake of his head Kharjo said no more. Neither spoke to each other for the remainder of the day. At first light Kharjo deemed that Wolfram was healthy enough and both departed for Rorikstead. They arrived at midday. Near the bridge they were greeted by Ahkari's caravan. Wolfram and Kharjo gave each other a hearty forearm shake. Before they parted ways Kharjo handed him a jar of healing salve and a set of bandages. He gave Wolfram a final pat on the shoulder then said with a toothy grin,

"One day I hope you will change your mind, we could always use someone with your talents. Until that day, may your travels find you warm sands." Wolfram offered a wry smile and replied.

"Next time we meet the brandy shall be on me, old friend."


End file.
